


A Chuisle

by goodgirlwhoshopeful



Category: And Then There Were None (TV 2015), CHRISTIE Agatha - Works
Genre: Additional Warnings Apply, Angst, F/M, Fluff and Angst, I became completely enraptured with Vera, Sorry Not Sorry, aidan turner - Freeform, i love these two, philip x vera
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-09
Updated: 2016-02-09
Packaged: 2018-05-18 11:04:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5926111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goodgirlwhoshopeful/pseuds/goodgirlwhoshopeful
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>As she trembled on the bathroom floor, it came home to roost that it was precisely one of her feverish, passionate nights that had landed her here; panic-stricken, breathless, and terrified.<br/>The realisation came, as icy as the idea of impending death had on Soldier Island, only this was somehow much, much worse.</p><p>But if Vera had to lose Philip, she would go down fighting.</p><p>Inspired by xxsparkxx's 'Vipers Nest'</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Chuisle

**Author's Note:**

> This is actually based on a prompt Ileft for @rainpuddle13 on tumblr for her Philip/Alice stories...  
> But then I found it was haunting me for days and this pretty much wrote itself (until 6am in the morning, on one occasion). A massive thank you to Rain for being okay with this and for writing such beautiful Philip/Alice fics that I adore. I did not read your work until this was finished in order not to take away anything that might influence my perspective on the prompt. Lots of love!
> 
> I was most greatly inspired by the wonderful xxsparksxx for her absolutely stunning Vipers Nest fic - especially for the details about America. I'm sorry if you felt I did not demonstrate this - I will endeavour to make it up to you.   
> I think Vipers Nest may be my most favourite fic possibly ever, so please know I never meant to upset you. 
> 
> Vera had me enraptured from the first word. I may be writing a lot more of these two – if you guys approve, that is, so please do comment!
> 
> (Trigger warning: talk of abortion)

She barely made it to the lavatory when the realisation came. 

Her hands shook so feverishly she could barely light her cigarette afterward, the lighter slipping and hitting the rug beneath her feet.  _"Shit,"_ she huffed, panic setting alight to her nerves as a tremor set into her frame. 

She and Philip, or Mr. and Mrs. Lombard as they were known abroad the ship, had just settled into their New York City apartment in Old Brooklyn Heights. She had expected a modest apartment, so had been incredibly surprised upon arrival to find the a property as up market as the one she stood in now. It was open, airy, and seemed all but new – overlooking a picturesque residential street with evenly spaced oak trees. 

It was beautiful really, and for the first time in a long time since Soldier Island, she felt a level of serenity. The air in New York was certainly not as clean as Devon, and certainly not as quiet by any measure, but it was most definitely far more enticing. 

Philip went about his business in this new city with the ease of a local, and sometimes, case dependent, he'd let her accompany him; she'd already seen him kill a man, after all. His Irish roots helped him to ally with The Mob, so he said was 'unfortunately necessary', though that was  _all_  he would tell her about it. 

He didn't allow her anywhere near those jobs. 

"They're nothin' like anythin' you've ever seen, Vera," he murmured the first time she had overheard about one of the Mob's infamous when they had gone dancing. She had noticed him instantly with his grossly fat form and immeasurable his arrogance for such an unattractive man. When they'd seen him, Philip had taken her by the arm and pulled her from her seat. The move would look passionate to an observer, but Vera could feel his cold urgency in the bite of his grip that would no doubt leave bruises in its wake. "You think  _I'm_ dangerous, Vera?" He had whispered into her curls, the warmth of his breath triggering a sudden down her spine. A young woman in a pretty deep blue dress caught her eye and smiled, evidently assuming he was whispering words of love; they were supposedly honeymooners after all. "Dangerous doesn't  _cover_ what these men are capable of."

She knew that he must have meant it, as Philip never admitted anyone was more dangerous than he without a fight. He was an arrogant son of a bitch that way. 

That being said, son of a bitch or not, Philip's hold over her was  _so_  powerful, she almost resented him for it. She would _hate_ him, in fact, if he were not her salvation, her life-force, after events that would have otherwise left her rotten and crumbling from the inside out. 

He filled her with vitality in his certainty and animalistic magnetism, while simultaneously making her weak at her very core when he growled in her ear or bit at her neck. Strangers would assume his behaviour callous and angry, and sometimes he was, but she knew better; Philip Lombard was a layered, complex creature who knew that you have to kill to not _be_ killed. She also knew she should be frightened of him... but instead, she found herself drawn in ever more by the fact. 

She had never been like other women and, until she met Philip, she had always worn a mask while in company to hide herself; in dance halls, at schools... during _sex_. This was the case even with Hugo – she knew that now. She painted over her own cracks in the name of optimism, optimism for her burning new love, but it is only now, now that she no longer had to, that she realised how much of her energy had been consumed in such tasks.

 _What a waste,_ she thought now. 

It seemed so foolish, now that she had Philip who truly _saw_ her, to bother hiding. She lied still, yes – more than ever, in fact – but Philip liked her lies. It excited him, wound him up, aroused him when she breathed her untruths against his skin. She didn't quite understand why; perhaps it was the when she did it, he knew she was being herself. Perhaps, she theorised, it was because her lies confirmed that they were indeed kindred spirits. 

No matter the reason, this new life with Philip had left her feeling satisfaction she had not felt in such magnitude since she had taken Hugo atop of the dune on that August day, years ago. She spent her days in a dull, mundane secretary job in the city – one that, in truth, drove her to distraction – only to come home to her true self, and to Philip. He'd often be there, waiting for her, dressed in very little and she would be thrown back to the first time she saw him in such little attire, the day they were all rushed from their beds to a disembowelled Rogers in the kitchen, only to be strip searched in their rooms.

He liked to lounge on the bed in his navy dressing gown with nothing beneath; the tease of his thick dark chest hair exposed as he tied the garment loosely at his hips. Upon entry into the bedroom, she would swallow and attempt to downplay the way his mere  _presence_ affected her as she removed her workwear, her  _costume._

 _"Mrs Lombard,"_ he'd drawl from his lounged position against the headboard, cigarette poised sinfully between his lips. In moments like this, she  _envied_ that cigarette...and yes, that made her ridiculous, but she was a fool for Philip... and they both knew it.

It wouldn't take long on evenings like that for the two of them to lose themselves in one another. She'd deliberately drop her restrictive skirt as though he wasn't watching, unbuttoning her blouse with practiced ease. She'd feel pride each time her hands did not shake under his unfaltering stare. She'd then seat herself gracefully on the stool at the dressing table, leaning forward in nothing but her brazier, knickers, suspender belt and stockings, all satin and peach coloured, to unbuckle her shoes.

It was usually then that he would pounce. They would fall into the ritual almost every evening in the week; Vera's false nonchalance would result, first in Philip's frustration, and then, in the end, feverish, airless, animalistic _fucking._ There was no other word for it, not when Philip would bite down on her throat and her breasts and her collarbone, gripping her behind and thighs with such zeal he would leave penny-shaped bruises behind. She in return would create artwork of her own into his sculptured back with the half-moons and scratches of her nails, marking him just as he marked her. 

Now, as she trembled on the bathroom floor, it came home to roost that it was precisely one of those feverish nights that had landed her here; panic-stricken, breathless, and terrified... as the realisation came, as icy as the idea of impending death had on Soldier Island, as though she had been hit by a freight train.

She was  _pregnant._

She had anticipated that this outcome might be the case, as for the last two weeks or so she had not felt herself. She had cupped her breasts in the bath and realised how sensitive they were, and she was sure they were larger somehow. At first she had dismissed it, but then she had begun to feel ill in the morning and toward lunchtime, having to dash to the bathroom at the slightest smell of chicken. She had even cried upon orgasm three times the previous week, which had bemused Philip to such a degree that he had held her in an iron grip for hours afterward – even running a bath for her when he did not stop shaking.

Having just returned from the Doctor's office, what originally was a sneaking suspicion was now cold, hard fact... and Vera felt it anchor her like the entire planet had come to rest on her shoulders. 

It was a weight that rivalled even that of her darkest moments; a weight that rivalled even that of that which settled on her chest for months after Cyril... after she neglected to help and save the life of little Cyril. 

The thought choked her. "Oh,  _God, no. No, no..._ " She took a heavy drag of her cigarette and threw down a shaking fist against the sink.

She was not sure what about her thoughts was more abhorrent – the fact an _unborn child_ of her own making inferred the same sense of dread and panic as _murder,_ or the fact that she felt worse about the child than she ever had about  _anything._

Though, this was not for the reasons she had always thought she might; the thought of having a child had never been something she saw in her future at all. She simply did not feel emotions in the way other women seemed to; she did not feel that maternal yearning to reproduce, nor the swell of delight at the sight of a newborn baby. She  _did,_ however, find the expressions and reactions of other women utterly fascinating. It helped in her lies, truthfully, to watch how  _normal_ people lived... But if she were entirely honest, it unsettled her when she thought deeply about it, that she was so  _different_ from all the other people she had ever met.

 _Why_ was she? It seemed like  _ordinary_ people had it so  _easy_ in comparison... Whereas, in her mind, she seemed eternally numb to the rest of the world, and while it made it easy to lie, it made her feel separate...and alien... She had to try twice as hard, always acting, always wearing a mask...

The only person to _ever_  truly  _see her_  for who she was...was Philip. He was the only one to ever make her feel as though the person she actually  _was_ could be worthy. With him, she was _not_ separate. With _him_ , she had now begun to  _feel,_ which was why this child filled her with terror.

While the child represented a great abyss of the unknown, there was one thing that Vera knew for certain: she could  _not_ lose Philip...and this child, with all the will in the world, would do nothing but send him running. 

The sight of his face when she told him would ruin her, that she knew. She could stand disgust, disinterest, disillusionment, from  _anyone else – hell,_  she'd got exactly that from Hugo and she'd bounced back from that easily. 

However, she knew she could not stand that from Philip, for Philip _knew_ who she was – she was a monster, disconnected and cold – but _he wanted her anyway._ Philip's rejection would mean the rejection of true  _kinship..._ which was as good as death.

For that reason, she knew what she must do: leave before he could ever know... At least that way, if she had to lose him... she would not lost herself as well. It would not be easy hiding from a man like Philip, but she had made some friends – she used the term loosely – in her short time here. Americans were always so eager to be friendly. She could find someplace, away from here. She could find someplace, have the baby and leave it with someone who wanted one, then she could maybe find Philip again...when she was ready. 

Or not, of course. Either way, anything would be better than the alternative. 

She dashed out of the bathroom and into their bedroom, retrieving her trunk from underneath the bed, she set about yanking open the chest of drawers and sending clothing flying haphazardly into it. Her breath did not come easily again, suddenly feeling wetness on her hands as she leant over the case to stuff her clothing inside.

It was then that she realised she was crying, which threw her off all balance all over again, for Vera Claythorne did not cry. 

She'd cried at the Cyril inquest, yes, but those fears had been that of a character, not her own. She in herself had always felt too numb for such outward emotion...for which she had, in fact, always been grateful.  

She dashed her hands across her cheeks, letting out a frustrated sob when more took there place. She slowly staggered to the edge of the bed, letting the fabric between her fingers fall to the floor. She watched it fall and then dashed it up again when she realised it was one of Philip's shirts that she had pilfered after sex one morning. She ran her thumb and forefinger back and forth along the collar before drawing it to her face and breathing in his scent that still hung there. Old Spice. Cigarette smoke. Macy's Soap... and something else that simply belonged to him. 

"I cannot leave him," she whimpered to herself, dropping her head into her hands in her lap and rocking back and forth. She clenched her eyes shut and she tried not to consider the life now growing within her, half herself, half  _Philip._

 _Philip..._ Images of a life without him, without his _protection_ , without his _companionship_ , without the warmth of his body to distract her from all her demons, began bouncing around her brain as her temples pulsated with the insistence of a migraine. Fear pulsed through her veins at the idea of losing him, as only Philip made her feel safe. 

She had never told him as much, for had not known  _herself_ for a long while, but she knew it now. 

Philip Lombard, gun-for-hire, cold, dangerous as he may be, was her salvation.

Nauseous rolled her stomach and rose up her throat as it had not too long before as she rushed to heave over the toilet once again. Her stomach had been emptied upon her hearing the news from the doctor, as she had run into the bathroom at the clinic. Now, despite there being nothing left in her stomach to vomit, she still wretched violently, causing her ribs to ache with the force of it and the taste of stomach acid and bile burned in her mouth. 

She was going to lose her salvation... and she was helpless to stop it.

* * *

 As it transpired, she had been lying beside the toilet so long that she did not have time to flee before Philip returned. 

He found her, near-sleep and sweaty, laying on the cool bathroom tiles, her blouse anew and unbuttoned. She wasn't aware he was present until his hands found her skin.

"Vera!" She stirred upon hearing his sharp Irish vernacular bounced harshly off the solid surfaces of the bathroom. He heard his shoes slap against the tiles as he hurried to her from the doorway. The moment she heard him, she jolted awake, scrambling to wipe her mouth and sit upright, as though it could all be magically forgotten. "What happened?!"

" _Philip_ ," she slurred wearily, attempting to widen her eyes with an air of nonchalance. "You're...home... I was just about to...make dinner..." She tried to stand, desperate suddenly to get away from him, away from the lie he would see in her eyes if she kept talking. Her balance failed her though, as she almost toppled as she went to stand, her head spinning like a carousel. 

"Steady, _a Chuisle! Steady."_  The soft gaelic coo caressed her ear as he spoke against her hair, taking her by surprise in its gentleness. He did not seem to notice her surprise though, as he caught her in the strength of his arms and drew her against his chest, almost as though it were instinct. He was speaking – hazily she watched his full pink lips move inches from her face – but she could hear nothing. Instead, the soft Irish murmuring of a moment previous was all she could think about; the way the foreign word fell effortlessly from his mouth; his native tongue. It circled her and she found herself mouthing it, attempting to replicate it with the movement of her own tongue. Silently _,_ staring into the ever-animated face of her lover, she mentally tried to sound of the word. __KHRUSH-leh?__  No... _ _KHUSH-leh... That's__  how he'd said it, _ _wasn't it?__

She could smell the fresh air of the city on him, and while it was completely inappropriate in that moment, that and the sound of such a beautiful unknown language, exotic and musical – it made her  _want._

_A chuisle..._

She was sure she'd heard him mutter that during sex, actually, now she thought about it... The thought perplexed her. What could it mean?

" _Fuck_  – Vera, darlin' – Come back to me! C'mon, Vera – " He cradled her now, still on the floor of their apartment bathroom, still in his suit – no jacket. It was the royal blue pinstripe suit he was wearing the day they met, in fact. Trim waistcoat with a sharp shirt and tie, as was Philip Lombard's staple, to most people. Being his lover, his –  _whatever_ it was they  were – Vera felt privileged to have witnessed a slightly less... masked version of the man. With her, at weekends, he'd were his linen shirts and trousers that moved.

 _Well,_ that was  _if_ he put on any clothes at all. 

The day they met, he'd worn no mask – she knew that by now. In the first few hours, once they exchanged words on the dock, she had assumed many a thing about him: that he was the prolific louse all the unbearable souls on the island... and that he hid his true self behind a brick wall motored with deceit, distaste and misogyny.

She had been incredibly mistaken, because, in fact, Philip Lombard had been communicating to her, right from that very first moment their eyes met across the carriage, his _truth._  Firstly, that he saw something he wanted, and secondly, that he could  _see_ her. 

One look and he simply  _knew_.

What he did _not_ know is, she had seen  _him_ instantly too.

She had mulled over the dark, undeniably handsome stranger on the train once she had played her dignified,  _ladylike_ role of being offended, pulling down her skirts and promptly moving carriages. She had seen in his eye the same beckoning she had seen in all those whom had ever wanted her in her life; she'd known what he wanted. However, more than that, she'd seen something in his eyes that frightened her and, truly,  _that_ had been why she had flown from him. 

Yet, _here_ was that _same_ man in that _same_ suit, holding her with the tenderness of any ordinary lover in distress... on the floor of their shared bathroom.

It all seemed laughably ludicrous – that is, until she remembered _why_ they were there.

She knew she did not have many more seconds to decide on her strategy; she knew she had very few options left. She could not run from him, not now that he had seen her this way – he would simply chase her... but she could not lie to him, either. He always knew when she lied. 

A whimper escaped her lips at the realisation that there was no presence strong enough – not even in the likes of her lying abilities – to get out of this one. She knew he would see it, he would fight against it, dig for it... but that did not mean should would not try.

A growl rose from his chest in frustration, leaving her breathless as she felt the vibrations against her own. "I swear to _God_ , Vera, _tell me_ wha – " 

"– _Philip_ – I'm alright." She slipped her hands over his shoulders and down his shirt-clad arms in gratitude. "I just... had a turn. Felt ill. I'm alright now." His hazel eyes were narrow, but in a frown, not in scold, as concern seemed written all over him. Slowly, he loosened his hold so she was no longer held flush against him. With care, she rose to her feet and braced herself against the sink. The reflection filled her with the overwhelming urge to double-take; her appearance truly was  _awful._

He would perhaps believe she was simply ill, after all... _if_ he didn't ask anymore questions. 

She must have seemed to relieved at the sight of her own sickly parlour, as suddenly Philip's eyes were hard with the flint of suspicion, analysing her in the reflection of the mirror. Instantly, she looked down at the sink, as though breathless. 

"I'll send for a doctor," he declared, clearing his throat. "Y'do indeed look very pale, Vera." 

Even as he said those words however, she knew there was a double meaning, an edge, to them, as he inched toward her with every syllable. He was testing her, assessing her reaction. Instantly, she knew the change in him; this was the man who hunted, who always got what he wanted, even if he had to rip it from the flesh of a corpse. 

She tried not to tremble when as his chest came flush against her back, his arms bracketing hers where they braced the sink in front. His breath tickled her neck and she shuddered – despite all else that had occurred, he still affected her like the flick of a switch. With each tease of his breath on her clammy skin, she felt a tug deep within her stomach and moisture begin to pool between her thighs. 

It was  _utterly_ absurd that he have so much power of her, and so  _utterly_ absurd that he had it even now, when their unborn child cast a great shadow over all other possible thoughts. 

"You had a 'turn', hm?" His tone was slow... _suggestive._  "The Vera I know does not have... _turns._ "

She studied the olive skin of his hand beside hers, daring not to look up at his eyes in the mirror. She found herself captivated by the difference in their skin tone for a countless time. She often found herself wondering, when she would have the opportunity to simply _gaze_ the expanse of his bare skin for hours, exactly where it is he came from. Ireland, that she knew; the Dublin region, but... he was so  _dark,_ sometimes. In fact, even at his palest he was somewhat olive. Where her skin would pink and burn, his went a beautiful golden colour... The New York sun had done wondrous things to his skin. 

"The  _Vera_ I know? The Vera who  _shot_ at me to save her own life? Who  _held it together_ through days of _psychological torment_  and _murders_?" He had lowered his face so that he stared at the side of hers, his nose in line with her temple – as though if he stared hard enough he would see right through her skull and into her thoughts. In her peripheral vision, she saw his jaw tick. "The Vera who  _killed a child?"_

Human endeavours were muddy; they were unpredictably upon principle, Vera knew this – having first learnt this lesson as a schoolgirl, when the other girls had taken her clothes and towel and left her, naked and humiliated, in the showers. It had then been affirmed to her further with every hurried kiss against brick walls and each fumble into underwear behind the bicycle shed. Even little Cyril confirmed the theory, really. He was a terrible, unfortunate piece of collateral damage in a unsuccessful endeavour that resulted in the greatest mess of all.

 _" – Philip, please!"_ Her tone was a wheeze; she was aghast at his audacity. Immediately, she felt her heckles rise as the words jarred into her like a blade. His words were a deliberate strike; he was not only provoking her – _no,_ this was different. It was unspoken oath between them since the horrors of Soldier Island that they would not vocalise one another demons unprompted. _How dare he?!_  

"Tell me what's wrong, Vera," he said, seemingly ignoring her hurt expression. (Hurting her was a means to end after all, if it got him an answer). 

She is not sure why she tried to lie to him, because it can't simply be spite for the 'murdered a child' comment. He  _was_ right after all, and they both knew it; she _was_ lying – and not the kind he liked. She was  _intentionally_ attempting to keep him in the dark, to shut him out, despite knowing the reaction it would instil in him. 

"For  _fucks_ sake, Vera – What's the matter with you?!" he cried, his accent becoming heavier under the stress, and it was then that his masked cracked. "Why are you packing?" She saw the whites of his eyes again and it almost made her feel triumphant, as realisation came in one great wave: he was  _hurt_.

Perhaps, if she was capable of being truly honest with herself, she would realise she  _liked_ to rile him this way. She  _liked_ being reminded of his power, his strength, his murderous streak... because it reminded her of how privileged she was to be within his trust; his unique circle of one. 

She supposed she wanted to remind him just how affected _he_ would be if he left, too. (Until now, of course, she hadn't known he would be for sure). 

But, mostly, she loved to remind him of the great power  _she_ held over  _him._

Perhaps, just _perhaps_ , if she were truly honest, Vera Claythorne, now 'Mrs. Philip Lombard', did indeed thrive on taunting the devil.

She drew down her metaphorical steel walls in that moment, attempting to shutter her eyes from his penetrating ability to see her. Swallowing, she rose her chin, hardening her resolve as she prepared to tempt the devil. "Nothing's wrong." Her voice was monotone – dry – emotionless, as was her aim. Instantly, she felt him tense behind her, watching his knuckles tighten to a shade of white as they gripped the porcelain of the sink. Before she could take a breath, he slammed a hand down beside them; the sound so harsh and loud in the room that had been so tense with quiet that she jumped backward. His other hand came to grip her upper left arm, spinning her round so she had to face him, her buttocks now pressed painfully against the sink. 

" _Don't,"_ he snarled, " _lie... to me."_ His gaze was murderous; it was clear he was furious, but she knew she had to try. For all his bark, Philip did not bite. Well, never had he done so to  _her._ Toward others,  _of course_ he did – she'd witnessed him kill Wargrave, after all.

_"Philip – "_

" _Vera."_ The tone is a warning. His eyes darken as he lowers himself to her eye level; she could feel the bruising begin under his hold. "Think very carefully about what you say next. _Talk to me!"_  

"Or _what?!"_ she challenged before she could think bout the consequences. In that moment, she did not care; if she had to lose Philip, she would go down fighting. She watched him grind his teeth as his fought within himself for control. Then, his expression changed. It was tiny, so intangible, she might have missed it if she had not been watching him. "What are you going to do to me? If I don't submit to you?  _Hm?!"_ Her head, her ears, they were all ringing – it was then she realised her voice has risen to a shout. "What?! Assert yourself?  _Is that it?_   _Rape_ your pregnant wife to assert your masculinity?! – "

The words came so fast; she had never meant to say any of that.  _Damn_ that man and his ability to make her  _lose it._

His face was a picture as the words bounced off the tiles around them; the truth casting a great vacuum around them, swallowing up all anger that had been so paramount one moment before. 

In the silence however, Vera felt much more unnerved. She watched him blink sporadically and the tension leave his whole frame, his hands slipped from caging her against the hard sink edge. In the next moment, his brow furrowed until it created the 'V' between his brows, his eyes closed and he gritted his teeth. "God  _fucking_ damn it," he growled through them, slapping his own leg in frustration before prompting turning on his heel and quitting the room. She did not follow him. Instead, she took the time to wash out the foul taste in her mouth and brush her teeth, though it did not go unnoticed to her that her shuddering had returned. 

When she could put him off no longer, Vera smoothed out her hair and went in search on him. He hadn't ventured far; she found him smoking on the balcony terrace. She'd retrieved one of his knit cardigans, that he seemed to own but never wear, and pulled on in an attempt to halt her shivering. No matter the layers, they didn't seem to ease, but she left the cardigan in place besides; Philip liked it when she wore his clothes.

She moved to his side with quiet steps, as though he were a caged animal – which, she supposed, he almost _was_. "I cannot think how it happened, only that, honestly, I'm surprised it did not happen sooner," she murmured in a small, croaking voice, her throat sore from the days assault of vomiting, shouting and crying. "What with all the times we've fucked – " There was once a time she'd have never dreamt of allowing someone to hear her use that word so casually. 

" – I know." His reply was surpassing calm and she found she still flinched as he spoke, having expected the worst. 

She did him a disservice in that, she realised, for Philip was a man of logic and reason. He just needed time to think, is all. 

"I am very sorry this happened," he murmured, turning his eyes toward her and away form the skyline. They were wider than she was used to; he was unnerved, not in control. He wouldn't like that. She simply nodded, pulling his cardigan around herself tightly, despite the warmth of the early September air. He didn't seem to like that, as he frowned and grumbled, beckoning her to come to him. "Nah, nah, Vera, I  _mean it._ There are places we can go... I will sort it, I promise you."

She halted just before his open arms and swallowed, her shaking hands becoming clenched fists as she wrapped her arms around herself; as though holding herself together. 

"I have to kill it... don't I?" 

Philip cleared his throat, something he did a lot during business. It was his tell, his own way of saying, _'Time to do what I have to do'_. For a moment, he did indeed look business-like, even at the idea of terminating the prospect of a new life; a life they created; their own flesh and blood... Though, she had expected little else from a man who saw the murder of twenty-one African tribesmen to be but a hiccup, simply because he wanted their diamonds. 

The man before her  _was_ a killer... and it would do her no good to forget it. 

That left one question, though: what was  _she?_

She felt tears begin to fall soundlessly, but she made no move to dash them away, as she realised the reality of what she now must do; something she vowed she would out behind her, after the way the death of Cyril haunted her still. She must take a life...that was not even yet a life. When she did speak, her voice was barely a voice at all, as she wheezed to draw air into her chest. "I don't know...if I'll... _survive_...another one, Philip!" In less than a second, he sighed. He knew how Cyril haunted her; he had done since her own panic had choked her unconscious in her Soldier Island bedroom. He'd stroked her hair gently, as though it was something he had always done - she had felt it in her hazy unconsciousness. In all, Philip was capable of a much higher EQ than she often gave him credit for.

He filled the distance between them and his arms were her armour again. The hug was different from most they had ever shared; he squeezed her so hard against him so was sure she might break a rib and rocked her gently. His lips moved over her hairline, forehead and temple the way they did the very first time, when they'd been drunk and dancing in  _that_ place. She treasured that memory of all they had shared on that awful island, more so even than their first sexual encounter, feverous and ardent though it had been. 

For that was the first time Philip Lombard had shown her he had the capacity for more than sultry eyes, a smart mind and an equally smart mouth. 

The moment of his almost-kiss to her hair, her face, her neck, that night, even in a room where two other men were present, Philip had shown her tenderness... which had been her resuscitation in a life that had been seeming to put her to sleep.

 _"I know, Vera,"_ he whispered, smoothing his hands over her hard, attempting to rouse some heat with the friction. "Shh, _a Chuisle... S'alright_ – I've got ya, darlin'... I've got you _._  I'll make all the arrangements – you see!" He pressed kiss after kiss to her face and hair, and she almost smiled when the move meant his curls tickled her skin.  _How she loved those curls._ "My sweet,  _strong Vera."_

When the shakes don't stop, he offers to run her a bath, but the idea of the bathroom is too much to bare, after all that had occurred. She stuttered her was through a hurried refusal before he sighed, leading her instead toward their modest bed for two. 

"Philip, I'm so cold," she whispers, though almost to herself. His eyes were soft with a rare look of sympathy as he began removing his cardigan, followed by her half unbuttoned blouse. 

She frowned. "What? – "

Philip's lips quirked in a ghost of his trademark smirk. "Survival one-oh-one, Mrs Lombard." Next went  _his_ waistcoat, shirt and tie. "In the event of trauma, or in extreme cold, skin to skin heats  _much_ faster." Now dressed in nothing but her underwear, and he in his, he pulled her toward the bed and under the sheets. 

Despite the dark place her mind seemed lost in, she found it within herself to let out a chuckle. "Philip Lombard," she breathed with little emotion, "Now you have tips on  _saving_ lives?"

The dark chuckle that rumbled from his chest made her shiver, as she felt it against her own, her ear press against his thudding heart. "The irony is not lost of me, I assure you." 

Being enveloped in his arms was a euphoric rarity, since their physical activities usually left her in, what the French call,  _le petit moude,_ (or 'the little death'), so she experienced little of any post-conjugal embraces. Philip wasn't exactly the type, either. Usually, he'd hold her against him, most likely because he liked the feel of them pressed together as much as she did, and then he would either fall asleep or rouse to light a post-sex cigarette against the headboard – (the latter of which she found _unfathomably_ arousing). 

Finally,  _finally,_ with the sheer heat of his skin, she felt her frame seise its shuddering and her mind too returned to a much less jarred state.

"I was packing to run," she confessed softly, her voice level and calm after a long period of silence, her hand rhythmically drawing circles around his nipple. She knew he had guessed as much. "But not because – " she sighed and began again. "I thought you'd – "

 _" – Leave?"_ His resolution to her statement had been precisely her own choice of words; yet another sign of their frightening compatibility. He seemed confused, then suddenly inhaled, as though in realisation. "You were going to run away – have the baby..." 

Her rhythmic swirls halted as guilt and an emotion she could not name seemed to swallow her up in the inky soup of her numbness all over again. "Yes, I was – but to give it away – so then I could come back to you – I just thought – "

When he interrupts her this time, his tone is merely matter-of-fact. "No child of mine will ever be safe in this world, Vera."

To hear the truth aloud was hard, for some reason, even though she had never wanted children anyway. Perhaps it was the fact that, just for a while, she had liked the prospect of possessing a part of him; an eternal piece of this enigma of a man; a man known by no one.

"I know," she whispered before closing her eyes against the images that such conversations conjured from the depths of her nightmares. Men like Margrave,  _mad men,_ but lots of them;  _capturing, suffocating, poisoning, _d_ _isembowelling, decapitating, shooting in the head...__  All things she had seen.  _All_ things that a man like Wargrave could do to the child of a contract killer like Philip Lombard.

He hushed her then, most likely feeling her distress through the sharp sudden tension in her muscles. "You'll always be safe as long as I am breathing, darlin'... but there could never be anyone else." While she was fascinated by his candidness, she found the lump in her throat remained. "I refuse to allow anyone to jeopardise that... not even our child."

He had never vowed to protect her so explicitly before. There had been some talk of an alliance at first –  _"You stick with me, Vera"_ – but then they had sex and the lines blurred. As the last two left to face Wargrave, Philip having shot him in the head right in font of her, they both accepted that their fate, and their entanglement, was a fortunate twist of fate and fact of life – hence the decision to move to a new life as married after the Police let them go. It was convenient, and, at least for Vera, pretty much the truth; she was sure she would never find anyone more like an other half of her than Philip.

In gratitude, not trusting herself to speak, Vera nuzzled her face into the warmth of his chest and pressed a slow kiss over his heart. He made a noise in his chest, his hand lowering from its grasp around her back to squeeze her bottom in warning. 

"I can feel your pulse," she whispered as she lay her head back where it had been, suddenly aware she could  _feel_ his body pulse with each beat she heard and it merged with her own through the pulsing skin of her ear. "I cannot quite tell where you start and I begin." 

There was so much  _life_ in this man; such danger and uncertainty and tenacity that would send any other woman, any _sane_ woman, screaming 'sinner'.

Vera knew, devil or not, she would go to hell happily, if it was with him.

That's when he said it again, lowering his face to hers. _"A chuisle,"_  he breathed, his lips not an inch form touching hers; the look in his eyes almost questioning, as though what he had said had surprised him.This time, he seemed to say it with the intention of it being the centre of attention. 

"What does it mean?" she whispered, between slow, intoxicating kisses, attempting to anchor herself by running his, now unruly, curls in her fingers. 

He smiled then, that smile he gave her when she had rejected Tub's offering of a glass of brandy on the island. He'd chuckled in pure amusement at her suspicious character; her testacy to be, what her mother had always called,  _indelicate._ The smile was a rare one for him; it lacked curiosity, and it lacked ego. This smile was an expression that Vera suspected Philip Lombard never intended anyone to see. 

"Well... It doesn't really have direct meaning, per se – not in English, I mean." Now, the two lay side by side, facing one another, symmetrical with heads each on a pillow, but as close one another as they could manage. She could his warm skin, the tickle of the dark hair on his calfs, the stretch and wriggle of his against her own as they both curled their bodies toward one another, and she struggled not to wear a grin that he would mock her for later. Despite the horror of tomorrow, the impending abortion looming over her head, Vera felt at home here, in this moment; a cocoon in both time and space of warmth and serenity. "But, when you said that, I realised," he murmurs lowly, as though to speak normally would break the fragile bubble that had enveloped them. "It basically means  _'My Pulse'."_

Vera felt breathless at the fate of it, that something that _physically_ had spoken so loudly to her had been the word he had used as endearment all along. That, and the  _gravity_ of it's meaning seemed to wind her.  _My Pulse,_ he'd said.

He'd referred to her _his pulse..._ otherwise known as the rhythm... _that kept him living._   

" _A chuisle,"_ she whispered back to him, attempting to imitate his pronunciation the best she could. 

It seemed she cannot have done too awful, as he growled deep in his gut at the words, his hands instantly anchoring to the curve of her behind and the swell of her hips to pull her against him. The sound of his native tongue on her lips must have flicked the switch, as she found his hot and like iron against her already. She fumbled behind her back to undo her brazier, all most suddenly desperate and fumbled. Gone were both their underwear in seconds, before he pulled her to lay over him with a hungry kiss that had no break for breath.

"Say it again," he growled against her throat, biting hard on the flesh of her clavacle before smoothing it with his tongue, circling his hips in a torturous pace.

Still daring not to make a noise, she gasped silently at his onslaught, bracing herself on the refined planes of his chest, scratching her nails over the hair that covered his sternum and down his hard abdomen. With a jolting thrust and a bite beneath her ear, he made the demand again and she found she could do nothing but whimper and obey him. " _A Chuisle,"_ she whispered, deliberately leaving the words against his mouth before biting down his lower lip – much like he liked to do. 

As she took him then, setting into a rhythm, she had the distinct thought that it felt as though they were magnets; both with polars opposites and attractions, both so strong when placed too close together that the attraction itself had every chance of sending them flying apart. 

That, though, was a risk they were both willing to take.

 

That muchwas made clear by the new word she learned that day. 

 

 

* * *

                                                              


End file.
